


261 - Mini Request Mashup - Androgynous Roadie on Tour with Catfish

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Other, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 14:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14239590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: A fic that combines a bunch of mini requests: Reader is new to the tour and Van catches her sleeping in his space, Reader has an androgynous appearance, Reader is almost allergic to cigarettes (headaches, the smoke messes with her contacts) and Van is considerate about it, and a fic about the evolution of a friendship with Van (happiness, friendship, fun!)





	261 - Mini Request Mashup - Androgynous Roadie on Tour with Catfish

**Author's Note:**

> Reader in this fic is 10/10 androgynous. Their gender expression is ‘vague’ - i.e. do not present as stereotypical 'boy’ or 'girl’. However, their gender identity is not questioning/queer, but I wrote it as blank. Essentially, Reader is a boy/girl/genderqueer/whatever you want (because I didn’t write specifics), but they look/present as 'both’ (for lack of a better fucking word… fuck the gender binary and entire language system for failing me here). This is a platonic fic, so Reader’s sexuality isn’t discussed much; make it whatever you want in your head. Also, please be aware that I have tried to make it realistic by having Van and the others fuck up a bit with the words they use. They ain’t out here using slurs or anything like that, but they do use gendered words (*cough* “Oh, love!” versus “Oh, mate!” *cough*). So, this is a lesson for them.

While you absolutely prided yourself on being a non-judgemental person, you just couldn’t comprehend how anyone young ended up smoking cigarettes. Your parents weren’t as aware of the risks when the nicotine twisted them up into addiction, but you all did. And, honestly, there were better drugs that caused similar effects. The fact that it was only the law that made something okay and not okay seemed so fucking arbitrary to you. If all these kids were allowed just a couple puffs of dope, things would be better. Instead the world endorsed romanticising chain smoking and binge drinking and alcopops and bad habits. Maybe you were biased though; cigarettes made you feel sick. It wasn’t as though you were allergic, but even second-hand smoke caused migraines, itchy eyes and general discomfort. Going on tour with a pack-a-day each band probably wasn’t the greatest idea, then.

Catfish and the Bottlemen were a group of perfectly sweet, witty and smart guys. At least, that is what you’d been told. Your job wasn’t one that required direct interaction, and as it was your first proper job, you didn’t step beyond your role. The contract said something about 'road-hand’ and 'general equipment transport and maintenance’ but in reality you were the lowliest roadie; you unpacked the equipment, put it where it needed to be for tech set up, then repacked it. The only personal quality really needed was the ability to lift heavy things, the ability to follow instruction, and the ability to not sell out the itinerary of the band to the highest bidding fan. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The first of the guys you met was Bob. He had come to soundcheck way early. He and his head drum tech Joe had bought new skins, or something, and were excited about trying them out just for fun before setting up for the show. As you delivered a box of sticks, tape and tuning keys, Joe stood.

“Hey, Y/N. You met him yet? Bob, this is Y/N. New roadie. Y/N. Bob,” he introduced casually.

From his drum stool, he gave you a little wave, then his head tilted a little to the side. He was scanning your face and you were sure he was trying to 'figure out’ what everyone tries to 'figure out’ when they first meet you. But, you were wrong.

“Are you the one that figured out how to keep the stool from flyin’ back?” he asked.

Joe grinned and starting nodding for you. You copied his movement.

“Yeah. Um. In the least creepy way possible, I saw that interview where you said you had a 'phobia’ of it disappearing down the back, so… yeah…” you replied.

“Well, thanks. It’s good,”

“Especially with Van climbing all over your kit all the Goddamn time,” Joe added.

You had watched Catfish’s singer from side of stage as he climbed bass drums and amplifies and speakers. He hardly ever fell, but never truly looked graceful while balancing. The other roadies cursed Van’s name as they set things up. His footprints were evidence of his lack of respect for the equipment that the roadies loved like children.

You left Bob and Joe to it and wondered if they’d whisper about you once you had left. You knew Joe was a good guy, but you also had witnessed firsthand his catty gossiping. It was close to your favourite thing about him. Topping that list though, was “How’d all these people get in my room?”

The second member of Catfish you met was the main man himself, but completely by accident.

It had been a miserable day. Everyone was hungover and time dragged on. Somehow it just motivated you to get the job done quicker. You finished your to-do list before anyone else, then sat against the wall of a corridor backstage waiting for the green light to go to the hotel.

"Y/N. You alright, mate?” Larry asked as he rounded the corner and saw you.

Larry was your favourite person on tour. It had only been a couple of days, granted, so it probably wasn’t fair to make that call just yet, but you liked his weirdness and softness and silly confidence. You liked how he talked about the guys and the band. He had a brotherly companion vibe about him that made you feel comfortable. And like Bob, he never seemed concerned about… well, what the rest of the fucking world was concerned about. He looked past appearances and judged people for how they acted. And how good at Fifa they were.

“Yeah. Self-induced. Bit of a hangover. Need a nap,”

“You done everything then?” he asked. You nodded. “Why don’t you go have a nap on the main bus? It’s the one with the best couches and bunks, and Van and Bond are doing interviews all day. Benji is visiting family here and Bob never goes in there unless he has to. I got a key. Here.”

Larry held the key out. It was attached to a key chain, a foam banana.

“I don’t wanna get in trouble,” you replied, standing up and looking at the key hesitantly.

“Nah. Everyone is chill. As long as ya do what you meant to, it’s all good. Seriously. Here,” he said again, shaking the key.

You thanked Larry and headed out the back to the bus. Like always, you walked through the group of smoking roadies, making dramatic faces at them as they purposefully puffed smoke in your face. Holding in a cough, you semi-jogged to the bus.

After downing half a bottle of water and rinsing your face, you looked around a bit. The downstairs of the bus was small. The front was taken by the driver’s seats and cabin. There was a small kitchen bench with a mini fridge, a table with bench seating around it, another uncomfortable looking bench seat running down one side, and a tiny room with a tiny toilet. 

Upstairs there were the bunks. You wondered how the guys possibly fitted in them. At the back was a small room with two sofas. There was a T.V. fitted out with gaming consoles. The room was a mess of empty cigarette cartons, half-finished water bottles, and unwashed blankets. The small room made you feel weirdly at home. It looked the lounges of your friends. Familiar. Homely.

You curled up on one of the couches, wrapping a blanket around yourself like foil on a burrito. It took a while to fall asleep, but it happened around the same time the painkillers you took with the water kicked in. It also happened around the same time Van arrived at the venue, explaining to Larry that the last few interviews were postponed because a “big news story or somethin’, you know?” Despite being big enough breaking news to stop interviews, Van did not have any information about it. And rather than look it up, he ghosted Larry for half an hour before disappearing outside for a smoke, then onto the bus to grab a couple of minutes of alone time.

…

As you came to, your vision sharpened and the room came into focus. It was the same room you had fallen asleep in, but one remarkable difference. Van McCann was sitting on the floor of it, his back to the sofa opposite yours. He was writing in a book, copying notes from his phone. For a few seconds you just watched him like he was a play, like something interesting was going to happen. You realised then that he was the interesting thing, but you couldn’t watch him all day. Super creepy.

Sitting and pretending you had woken up only a second ago, you smiled at Van.

“Hi,”

“Hey. You’re in my spot,” Van replied. His words didn’t register in your head. You didn’t know what he meant. Van pointed the end of his pen at the sofa you were on. “That’s my bed,”

“Oh!” And with that, you were up and looking around awkwardly. “Ah, sorry, dude… I-”

Van started to laugh, looking up at you from the ground.

“I’m just messin’, lo- ah, yeah. Just messin’. You do work on the tour, yeah?” he asked. You nodded. “Yeah. Then you can be in here, innit. All good. Take a seat.”

Slowly, you returned to the little nest you’d made. Van watched you carefully and you watched him back.

“Larry gave me his key,” you told Van. “I wasn’t feeling good,”

“He’s a nice one. Always been good. Feeling a bit better?”

You nodded and Van nodded back. There it was. The look. The wondering. You could see it behind the sparkle of Van’s eyes. The curiosity.

“You want to ask something,” you said. Van’s expression changed; he looked caught out. He shook his head. “You sure? Kinda have that look on your face. I’m pretty used to it…”

“Used to what?” Van asked.

“Ah, you know… People wanting to ask if I’m a 'boy’ or a 'girl’ or whatever,” you answered, using air quotations to indicate your scepticism about the concept of 'boy’ and 'girl.’

It was true. It mostly happened when you were out and about mixing with the General Population, or anywhere with a low percentage of queer people. That looks of confusion. The internal monologue of 'well she has… but he also… what are they?’ splashed across their face, like it was a) that easy and b) any of their fucking business. You knew you were luckier than some. Your gender identity was pretty clear cut, it was more just the expression that got people all worked up. Androgynous to the extreme, the Cis Straight Normies hated it.

The managers and roadies on tour didn’t have to play the questioning game. Hotel rooms are assigned based on gender. It was just the band, really. You assumed Joe and Bob talked about you. It was why he didn’t seem confused when he saw you for the first time. Apparently nobody had mentioned you, or at least, your appearance to Van. He looked harmlessly confused, but when you called him out on it, his expression showed both defensiveness and hurt.

“No, I don’t- I mean-” he started, standing up. You watched him from the couch. He was shaking his head. “I’m sorry if I- I mean-”

Your turn to laugh. “It’s okay. I’m not, like, telling you off. But I can see it, you-”

“No! Seriously. That isn’t what I was looking at,” Van said.

“Um. Yeah. You were looking at my face and hair and stuff,”

“Yeah, but not like… I mean, you’re right, you really look… like both… fuck that sounds mad offensive-” Van continued, his speech rapid and his hands flying around.

“Mmm… not the best phrasing, but you’re just starting out,”

“Right. Sorry. But that ain’t it. I was just thinking that you’re dead beautiful. That’s all. I’m sorry if I made you feel weird.”

He was nothing like what everyone described him to be. The Van you had watched on stage, heard stories about - he was cool. He was smooth and super chill and coasted through life easily. The Van in front of you was the most awkward thing you’d ever encountered. He stood in the small space, shoved his hands in his pockets and willed his cheeks to stop glowing red.

“What?” you said when your brain was giving you static.

“Yeah…”

Van sat on the spare sofa and rubbed his hands over his face. He made a strange sound that maybe could be classified as a laugh.

“Aren’t you straight?” you asked suddenly.

Van’s head shot up and he grinned.

“Why?”

“I’m not… like… straight guys don’t really think I'm…” you started, but couldn’t finish. Dead beautiful.

“Eh. Maybe it’s like… like when you’re in a shop and you see a chocolate cake and you’re like 'I wanna eat the whole thing’ but you don’t really, maybe it’s like that. Or maybe I don’t know what I am. Don’t think it matters too much,”

“Wow… Am I the… Wait… I honestly can’t tell if that was offensive or progressive. You're… you’re an enigma,” you replied, impressed at his ability to be both ignorant and charming simultaneously.

“Thanks?”

For a moment more you continued to watch each other, figure out what was happening.

“Um. Do you mind if I sleep for a bit more? I can swap sides if this is really your spot,” you finally said.

“Yeah, no. It’s all yours. You mind if I stay? Just gonna keep writing.” Upon your nod of approval, Van settled himself down on the sofa and started writing. Your eyes were closed and you were close to sleep when he spoke again. “What’s your name? Never asked,”

“Y/N,”

“Y/N. Right,” Van echoed. “Do I call you 'mate’ or 'love’?”

To explain the concept of gender and the gender binary as a flawed and damaging social construct, or not to explain, that is the question.

“I don’t mind either,” you mumbled. To not. Yet. “Whatever feels right,”

“Okay. Sorry,” Van replied, finally letting you nap.

…

When you woke up for the second time in the small space that made you feel safe, Van was still opposite you. There was still daylight streaming in from the teeny tiny window. It did little to actually light the room, but it was the closest thing to a clock you had. Your phone had wormed its way into the depths of the blanket burrito.

“Hey!” he beamed when he looked up and saw you awake. You made a sound that was meant to be words, but mostly was a grunt. “You weren’t gone for long, huh?”

“What? Asleep? How long?”

“Ah…” Van paused to pull his phone from his pocket. “Only 'bout twenty minutes. That’s good but, 'cause it means we got time for a game of Fifa. Messaged Larry before but he says he’s got a job to do n’ all that. You know how to play?”

Van was on his knees in front of the television before you could answer. He uncurled the controllers and set up a game.

He continued to talk. “If ya good you can use Larry’s account. He’s never gonna beat me anyway so it don’t matter. If you’ve not played then we’ll start from the start so you learn proper.”

Van looked over his shoulder at you, waiting for something. You let yourself roll on to the floor and sit next to him.

“I can play,” you said, your voice half whisper half frog croak. “Prepare to meet your match, McCann,”

“HA!” he cried and smiled, all teeth. “That’s the spirit!”

It only took five minutes for Van to get nervous. It took ten minutes for him to stop playing soft. It took twenty for you to win everything ever. When it was over, he sat looking at the screen with an expression of genuine confusion on his face.

“This happen much to you?” you asked.

“What?”

“The losing thing,” you replied.

Van looked over at you and shook his head. He reached out and used the wood shelf above the television to prop himself up as he stood. As he did, he winced and drew his hand to his chest, like he’d been burnt. He frowned as he studied his hand.

“Splinter,” he mumbled.

For a few seconds (that seemed much longer than they were) you watched him try unsuccessfully to remove the wood from under his skin.

“Got tweezers anywhere?” you asked him.

His lips twitched as he thought, then he shook his head.

You tried again. “Where’s the first aid kit?”

“Ah, no idea,” he replied.

“Alright. Sit down. Lemme look.”

Without any hesitation, Van was on the floor holding his hand out to you. You instructed him to hold his phone’s light over his skin as you searched. The splinter was big, which was a good thing; it made it easier to push out. Van whined and pretended to be in pain as you worked, but all he got for his effort was one brief glare up. The splinter was out within the minute and Van was smiling again.

“Well aren’t you just the useful one,” he said. You shrugged and wiped the splinter into one of the empty cigarette cartons. “We should get inside now. Did you wanna stop for a smoke first?”

“I don’t smoke,” you replied.

“Useful and smart. I’m gonna sound all gravely way before I get old. Can’t tell if it will make the songs better or worse.”

You followed Van outside, where he leaned against the bus and lit a cigarette. You hesitated for a second, knowing you should have moved quicker. As soon as the nearly invisible cloud hit you, your eyes started to sting and your nose twitched and sniffled.

“Ah, fuck. I’m gonna go in,” you said, taking a step back.

“You alright?” Van asked, clearly concerned.

“Yeah, yeah. Just super sensitive to tobacco smoke or somethin’. I don’t know. All good. I’ll catch you later,” you said. Before your sentences were done, he had already dropped the smoke and put it out with the heel of his boot.

“I’ll come. Sorry. If I knew, I-”

“No, it’s fine. All good.”

Once inside you parted ways.

…

Two days off is just the weekend to a regular person, but to the band and crew of a tour that hardly stopped to sleep, it was a lifetime of adventure opportunity. It was kicked off in style - a hotel room suite party. A few people opted for bed instead and some had used the 48 hours to visit family, but most stayed lounging around and drinking well into the early hours of the morning.

“WHEN’S THERE’S NO ONE LEFT TO FIGHT, BOYS LIKE HIM DON’T SHINE SO BRIGHT!” Van and Larry screamed at each other. “Soon as I see the dust settle, here’s out on the town tryin’ to find trouble!”

They danced the entire song. It was proper dancing too, not just jumping around and rolling about. When they were done, Larry trotted off to Bob and Joe in the corner, and Van collapsed on the couch next to you.

“I love Jamie,” he slurred. “Such a lad, you know? Dead sweet.”

You laughed at the drunken accolade.

“I love…” and as you tried to think of something, Johnny Bond walked into the hotel suite with an armful of bottles of spirits. That within and of itself was a relatively normal scene, but what was out of place was the large inflatable rubber duck he was pulling along behind him by a piece of string.

Bondy gently laid the bottles out on the hotel bed (the people in the room descended on them in an instant) then walked to you and Van. He held the string out to you. You took it, pulling the duck closer. It was 'dressed’ as a pirate.

“Duck,” you said.

“Duck,” he replied.

“Goose,” Van added, followed by a beer induced burp.

Bondy sat down next to you and placed his feet up on the table.

“Why do I get the duck?” you asked, genuinely confused. You and Bondy got along fine, but it wasn’t like you had inside jokes or anything like that, not like you and Van.

“Reminds me of ya, man,” he replied.

Van leaned over your legs to hit the duck in the head. Suddenly you were very attached to it. You pulled it off the ground and hugged it.

“Hey!” you yelled at him. He sniggered and stayed lying across your legs, wriggling up a little bit to have his head in Bondy’s lap. “Why am I a duck?” you asked Bondy.

“You 'member that time you got smoke in ya eye and you walked aroun’ all day with one eye closed? Pirate,” he said.

“I do like rum too,” you said with a shrug.

“It came with the rum.”

That’s when you saw the little Captain Morgan logo on the duck’s ass; it was free promotional material given to Bondy at the liquor store.

Van decided to participate in the conversation again. He reached up and patted Bondy’s face with one hand and ruffled your hair with the other.

“Bondy this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Johnny Bond,” he said, his words falling into each other.

“We know,” you told him.

He looked confused but continued on with his mission of properly introducing you.

“Bondy does the guitar and he’s dead good. He’s just… psychedelic, ya know? So smart too. He’s knows so much 'bout music,” Van praised, closing his eyes so he could focus his attention on his own speech. “And Y/N is the new roadie and everyone says… says they’re good and can lift more than Larry, but that ain’t hard 'cause Larry is so little, you know?”

"Y/N’s little too,” Bondy noted.

“Strong little,” Van clarified, like that meant anything.

Bondy chuckled to himself, then pushed Van’s head away so he could stand and go get himself a big glass of wine. You watched as he emptied a glass fruit bowl of the fake fruit and filled it with wine. He did not wipe it clean of dust first.

The song changed over to The Bad Touch by The Bloodhound Gang and Van jumped up like it had sent an electrical impulse from his head to his toes.

“Tune!” he yelled and became the first of many people on the dancefloor in the small ensuite room. You stood at the door flicking the lights on and off, laughing at your new friends.

…

“Y/N!”

Turning around, you waited for Van and Larry to catch up to you. Van wrapped his arm around your shoulders while Larry continued to film the street and himself.

“Heard you were doing the lunch run,” Van said. “How you meant to carry that many sandwiches?”

“Haven’t you heard I’m the strongest?” you replied with a grin.

The walk from the venue to the closest café willing to produce that many sandwiches in one go was relatively short, but it took longer than it should have due to Larry and Van’s need to stop and film anything they deemed 'interesting’ or 'funny.’ Their standard for both was significantly lower than yours.

“Don’t you be judging us!” Van all but squealed as he hid behind a fence and narrated the internal monologue of the construction crew across the road.

“I’m not, honest. It’s just… You don’t get out much, do ya?”

Onwards, you thought maybe you’d actually get to the café on time. Then, the dogs appeared. Three old English sheepdogs bounded around the corner, followed by their little old lady owner, struggling with the leads. The dogs all came to a crashing halt when Van and Larry both dropped to their knees and held their arms open for the dogs. In turn, the dogs jumped all over them, licking their faces and making best friends with the boys. The old lady laughed, her face lighting up and her cheeks going a peachy shade of pink.

You took Larry’s phone and filmed the interaction, smiling every time Van looked up to you or the lady for some sort of acknowledgement that what was happening, was in fact, happening. Had he not died and gone to heaven?

When the dogs settled and Van had had a lengthy conversation with the lady, you continued on to the café.

Larry went to the bathroom and you and Van sat along the window bar to wait for the sandwiches to be labelled and packed.

“You have a dog, right?” you asked him.

“How do ya know that?” he asked.

“Think you may have mentioned her once or twice,” you replied. In reality, you knew a fair amount about Little Mary. Every time Van was drunk, he’d bring her up and show you photos of her. You liked the one of her in a picnic basket and any video where she aggressively growled at food.

“Little Mary. She’s dead cute. I love dogs,”

“They seem to love you too, dude. Everyone kinda does,” you told him.

He looked over at you with his head on an angle. “Nah. Not everyone. But yeah, I do get along with most people. No point starting trouble anymore. Got that all out of my system when I was a kid,”

“You’re kinda still a kid,” you said.

He nodded. “Yeah. That’s why all this is dead funny. We’re just a bunch of scrappy lads and look where we are,” he said, motioning to nothing and everything.

Between the three of you, it was easy to carry the food back to the venue. Musicians, techs, and roadies alike celebrated your return and spoke of your existence like it was mythical and magical.

“Let us know next lunch run. We’ll help again,” Van said between mouthfuls of the most jacked sandwich ever. He hardly ever ate salad.

“Yep, 'kay. Thanks McCann. Lau.”

Larry grinned and nodded.

…

“Yeah. Just a second!” you yelled through the bathroom door.

Your eyes burned and you could hardly see what you were doing. The pain and frustration weren’t exactly helping to steady your shaking hands.

“Y/N?” Van’s voice asked. “You okay? Need help… or anythin’?”

“Not unless you know how to put contacts in,” you replied.

“Hey! I do actually!”

You looked over at the door then back at your reflection. It was a little blurry and entirely in need of help. Putting the contacts in their case then walking to the door, you let Van in. He locked the door behind him.

“I just…” you started but felt too worked up to talk properly.

“Walk through smoke?” he asked. You nodded and sat down on the closed toilet. “I haven’t done this for ages, but may as well give it a go, yeah? Sorry if I poke your eye out,” he said with a smile that weirdly put you at ease.

Van washed his hands then carefully picked up one of the contacts. He held your face in one hand and got your left contact in easily first go.

“Wow,” you said. He shrugged and went for the second. “How do you know how to do this? You don’t wear contacts,”

“Nah, but I used to date a girl that did. I was dead obsessed with her, you know? Wanted to do everything for her and know everything about her. Bit weird when I think about it now. I loved brushin’ her hair and watching her do her makeup and stuff. She was horrible at putting the contacts in, so I tried, and I’m just… good at it,” he explained.

“Steady hands,” you said.

“Yeah. Something like that,” he replied with a sly smirk.

With both contacts in and your vision restored, you splashed some water on your face and felt okay again.

“Thank you,” you said to Van, who was leaning against the wall, waiting to escort you out apparently.

“Easy.”

…

“Y/N,” they all said at the same time.

You were standing against the far wall and suddenly all eyes were on you.

One of the tour buses had broken down, so there was a hasty reshuffling of who was going where. The guys were asked which roadies they wanted with them. They picked the important techs first, but one place remained. Apparently, your place.

“Y/N is clean,” Benji said.

“Look, let’s be real here. With Y/N, we get the best of both worlds,” Bondy said with a smirk in your direction. For some inexplicable reason, his teasing about the way you dressed and cut your hair was endearing. Perhaps because it came from a true place of mutual like for each other.

People looked back at you for explanation.

“Boy and girl,” you said, quiet enough that maybe some people didn’t hear. Even if they didn’t, it was what they were thinking anyway.

“Clean and pretty, like a girl. Fifa and mouth like a sailor, like a boy,” Bondy said.

“Boys can be pretty,” Benji said back, pulling his best anime-esque pose and smile.

“And girls can like Fifa,” Van added, his eyebrows pulled in, setting his face in a serious expression.

Look how far they’d come. Bondy shot you another look. You did love him. You loved them all.

…

“Well looky 'ere then!”

You didn’t even need to turn around to know Van had found his way to you. He crossed the space and leant against the railing next to you.

“Of all the hotels we’ve stayed at, this is the only one with roof access,” you told him.

“Yeah, I know. Always check. Something very fucking cool 'bout smoking on the roof,” he replied.

You looked over and watched him take a cigarette out and tap it to the box. He took three long side steps away from you, then lit up. He smiled, the smoke hanging from lips.

“Thanks,”

“Nah. Don’t need to thank me for not killin’ ya. Told you that before,” he replied.

And that, he had. You weren’t used to people be so overtly considerate of your body’s painful aversion to smoking. It seemed like a rare thing you needed to be constantly thankful for. There were a lot of things about Van and his friendship that seemed rare when you came to think about it.

“You sad the tour’s done?” you asked him.

“One more show yet. Last one is always mental. Jumpin’ the gun, Y/N,” he replied, looking out over the city.

“Right. I heard that you guys have some time off next. Gonna record soon?”

“That’s the plan. Got the album written. Think the lads wanna visit family, just for a bit over the holidays, you know? Then back at it. None of us like to sit still for too long,”

“Yeah, I get that vibe,” you replied, smiling fondly.

“What 'bout you? Working another tour or time off?”

“Um, I haven’t decided. Honestly, I don’t know if I'm… thick-skinned enough for this job,” you told him. He looked over at you with a frown and you knew he was asking for more. “If I’m a girl roadie, I get shit for that. If I’m a boy roadie, I never fit in. Probably need to be around people that get… it… a little more.”

Van stood up straight and looked a little angry, or maybe it was hurt.

“Is it like that here though? Thought here was good?”

“Oh! Yeah! This has been easy. It’s strange. It’s not like any of you are overly, like, woke or whatever-” you went to say.

“Woke?” Van asked confused. Bless.

“Like, you aren’t good because you’re socially aware. You’re just good… You’re all way too chill and easy going to discriminate or anything. It’s kinda funny, actually. But, yeah, no. Don’t worry. I haven’t felt like that here. But you guys don’t tour all year. Can’t make a living off just the one band. Besides, I don’t get to pick and choose where I go. Not entirely, at least,”

“We almost tour for the whole year. And we get to pick our crew. I’ll make sure you come back, yeah? I promise. I think the label likes that we tour so much. Means we get to be a little more picky about stuff, which is good. You’re part of the family now, Y/N,” Van said so, so genuinely. The warmth just poured off the boy. “And you gotta come visit us back home. That’s how you get to pick and choose. Gotta make friends with the bands you wanna work with,” he said, tapping his head.

“Well, guess I am on my way then, aren’t I?”

It was a rhetorical question and usually Van never really understood those. He’d launch into completely unnecessary answers while everyone else in the room looked at each other, holding back smirks and falling more in love with him. That time though, he got it. 

He put his cigarette out on the railing and flicked the butt over the side of the roof. You watched it fall until you couldn’t see it anymore. Van had moved back to stand next to you and he knocked his shoulder into yours gently. When the sun had finished setting over the city skyline, Van followed you back inside and you began the process of getting ready for the final show of the tour.

**Author's Note:**

> My best friend and housemate Kasey adopted a kitten for her birthday. The kitten walked across the keyboard while I was editing this. If there are rando letters or whatever, sorry. Blame Tonks.


End file.
